


Take Me Home

by fanforfanatic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Smut, Infidelity, Past Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 17:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10195382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic/pseuds/fanforfanatic
Summary: It's not a secret that Dean cheats on you and it's not a secret that you don't like it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the song Home ([youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNQASi28tIg), [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0P42eWQvmNe6I453EkicVo)) by Daughter

_I was drunk again, causing accidents._

_Oh, you're not a friend. No, you're nothing._

_I think I should be a little more confident._

_In myself, in my skin._

 

You stumble out of the bar and the only reason you're on your feet and not falling to the ground is because Dean is supporting you. You're grateful but you also haven't wanted someone's help as little as you want his, just then.

"Get off me." You slur, pushing at his chest to get out of his grasp.

You don't want him touching you, not after he spent the night with the pretty brunette draped over him. You don't want his hands on you, you don't want anything to do with him. Except, that isn't entirely true is it? Or else you'd physically remove yourself from him. Even in your drunken state, you're a skilled enough hunter to manage it.

"Get _off_ , Dean." You punch him in the chest again but this time it's honest. You do it to inflict pain, not to actually get away, and you know it. And he knows it.

"Alright, okay sweetheart," He soothes, his voice much more controlled than yours. Then again, he hadn't thrown back quite as many shots as you while he watched himself get swept up in another woman. "Let's keep you upright and avoid nose diving, yeah?"

You don't struggle against him anymore and let him help you towards the impala. By the time you’re close enough to the car that he can lean you against it, the fight has left you. All you can manage is a pathetic murmur. “You did it again.”

You don’t look at him, but you know that if you did you’d see guilt in his eyes. _Good._

“I didn’t, sweetheart, nothing happened, not…”

 _Not this time_ , You both think.

Dean has been a ladies man since… well since before he even really became a man. He loves it. Every part of it. The flirting, the seducing, the teasing, the tension, the sex. Dean loves it all. He was made for it, really. Well, no. Dean was made to rescue the world. To kill things and save lives. Still, he didn’t look like an adonis to live like a monk.

Yet, when you two had gotten together and he’d said there’d be no one else, he had meant it.

Meaning something and coming through are two entirely different things, as it happens. The two of you learned that lesson time and time again and you wondered if there would come a time when you’d be done with this sick education.

“Why?” You all but plead and it sounds pitiful even to your own ears. “Why do you always have to look elsewhere, why can’t I be enough?”

“You _are._ ” Dean insists, dipping his head to unsuccessfully try and catch your eyes with his.

You believed him the first time he said that, but you’re so far past the first time. The dry laugh you let out startles the both of you, but you think it’s fitting. Isn’t that the joke? That you thought you could be a match for this man that has put the world back together more times than you can count, that has carried it on his shoulders longer than he can remember, that has kept it from teetering off the edge even if it meant swan diving in its place.

What have you done? What value do you possess that could even contend? What do you mean to this world? Nothing. Not in comparison to the great Dean Winchester. God, you wish you didn’t hold it against him _but you do,_ because your relationship isn’t about the world, it’s about the two of you. You don’t have to mean anything to the rest of them if you mean enough to him. He’s the one who’s supposed to pick you, but he doesn’t. He keeps picking Tracey the waitress and Brit the coed and Jasmine the pretty brunette.

It wouldn’t matter if he hadn’t said he wanted monogamy. He’s the one who brought it up. It hadn’t even been necessary for you. You were happy with your arrangement, not quite a couple in the classical sense but more than anything else you’d allowed yourself to have before. He’s the one who wanted you two to _go steady_ , to _be exclusive_ , to _love each other like the civilians do._

_You’ll see sweetheart, it’ll be the most normal thing we do. I think we’ll be damn good at it too. Give these losers a run for their money. Show them what real love looks like._

You believed him. Maybe because you wanted to, maybe because he seemed sincere, maybe because he used the world _love_ for the first time. But Dean keeps ending up in other women’s beds and what that says to you is that he can’t not.

“Don’t start lying to me, Dean. At least you’ve been honest.” If looks could kill Dean would be coming back to life in a matter of hours, because the glare you shoot him is venom.

He did this to you. He gave you something you hadn’t dared to dream of. Made you feel like you could have it and then he ripped it away. Worse, he plucked it out of your hands only to return it to you afterwards with a string of _sorry_ s, making you believe it all over again.

Dean might be the dick in this equation, but you’re the fool.

“It just happened, I didn’t-”

“ _Stop._ ” You shout, launching yourself off the car. You regret it immediately, it’s too much movement in too little time just like it was too much alcohol in too little time just like this relationship is too much _hurt_ being drawn out too long. You refuse to let your point be deterred and you smack his hand away when he reaches for you to shout. At least you think you’re shouting, because the sound of your own grating voice is loud in, both, your ears and your skull. “I was _right there_ , Dean. No more than ten feet away and you just- You- _You._ I’m supposed to believe you wouldn’t have slept with her if the bartender hadn’t cut me off and called you over to settle me down?

“Of course, I’m the one who’s appearing like the psycho, like the jealous girlfriend, like the goddamn mess who can’t control herself. But you wanna know something, Winchester?” You take a step towards him and it must have been menacing because he takes one back. “You,” You dig the blunt nail of your pointer finger into his chest, but you doubt it does any damage through the layers. “Did this to me. You wrecked me. But that’s just what you do, isn’t it? You keep breaking things and you keep wanting to fix them but you just keep shattering the good pieces that are left.”

 

_Take me, take me, home, home._

_Take me, take me, home, home._

 

What you said hangs in the air and you have the odd image of waving your arms around, like that could scatter the words and jumble them enough that they’d stop making sense. Not that you’d want to. You were harsh, sure, but you’re not good enough of a person to not want to hurt him back. To not pick at Dean’s oldest and deepest wound.

You’re fraying at the seams because of Dean. There must be some kind of irony at play here because for a while he made you better than you could have imagined yourself being. However, now, you’re a lesser woman than you were when you met him.

A stronger person would have walked away by now. Wouldn’t have stuck around after second, fifth, twelfth time. You can’t walk away from Dean, though. That’s something you know on every level even if sometimes you told yourself, with resolve, that it’d be the last time you stand for his behaviour. A conviction that rings false every single time.

No, you wouldn’t walk away from him. Dean is the best you can do. Not because you live a hunter’s life, not because you’re settling for him. Dean’s the best you can do, because Dean’s the _best_. The best the world has to offer. He’s flawed, sure. Hell, he’s unfaithful. But Dean only ever tries. Perpetually trying to do good. Trying to survive. Trying to cope. You can’t fault him for that.

You still can’t leave him. He’s the one who’s going to have to do it. Even if it means there might not be much left of you when he does.

Your hand falls away from his chest and you keep the apology weighed down in your chest, chained to your ribs. You won’t breathe a word of it tonight. Maybe in the light of day when you aren’t still hammered and the guilt can consume you proper-like.

“Just take me back, please.” You fall back onto the car with a thud that makes your brain swish in your skull and close your burning eyes against the headache that’s sure to come. “Take me _home_ .” You know the word stings. You know it reminds him of what the two of you are supposed to be. What he begged you to agree to being with him. It reminds him of everything you two aren’t. Reminds him of his failures, of his betrayal. _Good._

You open your eyes to meet his and you find anger there. The tick in his jaw, the one that occurs when he’s trying to calm himself, reveals that you’ve done more damage that you thought. You’d regret it, you know you would, but not tonight.

Maybe you’re just as bad as him. Maybe you’re just as cruel.

For a moment you think he’s going to say no. The way his grip on his keys tightens, then loosens, makes you think he’s going to press them into your palm and tell you to drive yourself home. Makes you think he’s going to turn around, walk right back into the bar and go find the pretty brunette.

He doesn’t. What he does do, once his shame replaces his anger once more, is open the passenger door to the impala and help you into your seat. He doesn’t say a word about Baby, when you say you might throw up. Instead he pays extra attention to the road, avoiding potholes, and rubs comforting circles on your back.

Maybe he whispers soothing nothings. Short apologies and brief praises. Maybe he tells you you’re enough and that he’s the undeserving one. Maybe you don’t believe a goddamn word, because _nothing_ is exactly what they mean. But maybe you tell yourself that you do believe it, because you want to drink the cool-aid. Because when it’s not bad, it’s _good._

You and Dean you’re… You’re good. When Dean isn’t so deep in his pit of self-loathing and despair that he feels like he needs to escape everything that makes his life what it is. That includes you.

You’re good when you’re making breakfast and he scoffs at how you like your toast a little burnt. You’re good when you’re on a hunt and you watch him get his gun prepared, taking it apart, cleaning it out, putting it back together.

You’re good when the sun is near the horizon enough that it’s golden and you feel like if you swipe fast enough you can catch a ray of light in your hand. You’re good when even though you don’t move, don’t say anything about it, Dean knows exactly what you’re thinking. You’re good when he makes a fist in the air and then unclenches it slowly between your chests like he’s offering you the sun. Like he’s offering you the world. Because he does most of the time.

If the two of you can’t make it work together, then neither of you has a shot with anyone else.

 

_'Cause I don't stand a chance in these four walls._

_And he don't recognize me anymore._

_Burned out flames should never re-ignite._

_But I thought you might..._

 

Later that night, or maybe it’s another night altogether, because they’re all the same, really, you make it to the bunker. You’ve sobered up but Dean still helps you to your shared room. His touch on your lower back, on your upper arm, grounds you as you traverse the quiet halls of the bunker. You strip down to your underwear and crawl under the sheets. You stay on your side of the bed and he stays on his.

In the morning, you’re wrapped up in each other. It surprises no one and you think that might be part of the problem. Everything is forgiven for the both of you, and that’s definitely part of the problem.

 

_Take me, take me, home, home._

_Take me, take me, home, home._

 

It’s actual months later, when you finally do it. You tell Dean you’re leaving him. You tell him that you’re leaving too. It’s not like the two of you can be around each other and not be _the two of you._ If you end things him, everything else ends with it. You’d leave the bunker, you’d leave Sam, Cas, you’d leave this little family and you’d return to living alone out of your car and out of bad motels.

It’s another few months before you actually do it.

First, you fight about it because Dean can tell you mean it, this time. Though he knows he doesn't deserve you, that he's no good to you, he’s selfish enough to beg you to stay.

Then you’re sobbing into each other’s shirts, because it's become the inevitable. You understand that now. All good things… and all that. Feeling his body tremble in your arms, not from the pneumonia he got that one time, is one of those things you know will haunt you for the rest of your life. You know you’re going to have phantom sensations of it years into the future.

Eventually, your car is packed and you’re on the road and for the first time in a long time you don’t feel so trapped. You don’t feel so doomed. You’re homeless, in every sense of the word. You’re hapless and you know for certain now that you’re never going to have love, not the way normal people have it, but you’re also kind of content. You gave their kind of love a chance and you can rest easy knowing that you gave it your best shot. You’re homeless, but you hadn’t felt at home in a while anyway.

You’re free to only allow bullets and claws and sharp teeth to hurt you. You’re guarded and you’re strong and you don’t need Dean to pick you because you pick you.

It’s not the best life, it’s not even the best life you’ve known personally, but it’s a good one. It’s one where what you do matters and it’s one where you don’t have to question who you are every other day. It’s one where you don’t have to second guess your worth. It’s one where you can make a home out of your own bones.

It's a lonely one.

 

_Now he's moving close,_

_My heart in my throat._

 

The hunting world in the US of A isn’t that big, so it’s kind of amazing that you don’t run into Dean for years. It’s a blissful sort of existence until you spot him across the bar. It’s one of those places where there not much to do but drink and watch and you know he’s been watching you.

The gaze that sticks to your skin like something tacky would could only belong to him and you know it’s Dean before you look.

Then you do look and you’re done for.

 

_I won't say a word,_

_But I think he knows_

 

He does more than watch, Dean _sees_ you, like he always has. He moves towards you, strides across the room towards the stool beside you. Half of you wants to run. That’s the half of you that sees his approach as the destructive force of nature that it is. Another half of you wants him to pick up the pace. That’s the half that regrets. The half that would go back in time and _stay_ , even if it meant your own annihilation.

 

_That I've hardly slept,_

_Since the night he left._

 

When he’s near, it’s like he knows. Knows that you’ve been itching for him this whole time. Maybe not consciously, maybe not at the forethought of your mind, but it’s not like you ever really shook Dean out of your system. It’s not like you ever could.

As soon as he claims the seat, like he claimed you so long ago, your bodies hum the same frequency and they’re promising each other that the other’s touch is the only one they’ve craved.

 

_His body always kept,_

_Mine inside of it._

 

You’re like magnets and you mean that literally. You’re pulled and tugged towards each other almost against your will. He barely sits down and you’re both already getting to your feet, wordlessly. You exit the bar. You beeline for the impala.

_Keep the nightmares out,_

_Give me mouth to mouth._

 

It’s like no time has passed at all. The vinyl of his backseat is familiar in every way that matters. You move for each other on instinct, fueled by want, by need. His hands are in your hair tugging just the way you’ve always liked. His clothes are off, something else you’ve always liked.

The foreplay is brief, if that. It’s not like you guys aren’t ready for each other. It’s not like you haven’t always been. You wonder, as he peels off your underwear unceremoniously, if you haven’t been waiting for this since you left him. If you didn’t leave only to return.

He enters you and it’s so good and you’re so full and you realise you never really left at all.

 

_I can't live without ya,_

_Take me to your house._

 

Dean moves inside of you, his chest moves against you and he is everywhere and everything. You moan his name to let him know just that and then he moans yours. You could consume him, you think, with sudden clarity. Right here, in the parking lot of some shitty bar you could take everything that is Dean. Take and take until Dean is everything that you are too. That is, if Dean hadn’t swallowed you whole a long time ago.

 

_Take me, take me, home, home._

_Take me, take me, home._

_Take, take, take, take_

 

Maybe that’s okay. Maybe you don’t need this to be healthy, maybe you just _need this_ . Maybe your home is in Dean’s bones. Maybe before you’d even met him. Home doesn’t have to be right. Doesn’t have to be good for you if it _feels good._

And Dean feels good. Feels good to come home to.

His lips are on your neck and he’s murmuring something. The first words either of you have said.

_That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart. So good, you feel so good. Missed you so much. That’s it. You’re gonna come. I know. I know. Me too._

Then you do.

 

_Take me, take me, home. (Me, me, me, me...)_

_Take me, take me, home. (Home, home, home...)_

 

Your naked body is touching Dean’s only where the back of your knee rests over his thigh. You’re both panting, trying to wrap your heads around what just happened. Around the fact that it did happened and neither of you is going to wake up suddenly.

 

_But I thought you might..._

 

Then you wake up, suddenly. Not from a dream, but you’re startled back into reality. Back to understanding that you and Dean, can’t be what you need each other to be. You and Dean can’t be lovers. You can’t be partners. You can’t be home. You can’t be.

 

_Take me, take me, home, home._

_Take me, take me, home, home._

_Home._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback much appreciated :) You know the drill


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